


In Love With Second Best

by musiclily88



Series: Wasted Youth// There Wasn't Much to Waste [14]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Awkwardness, Depression, Drinking, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loathing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Sexual Harassment, Smoking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:20:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing was new, not even the angry heart beating jaggedly in his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Love With Second Best

**Author's Note:**

> What even am I doing at this point? I don't know. But there's no use stopping now!
> 
> Comments, criticism, anger, love, hatred, name-calling: all of it is welcome.
> 
> And yeah that's a Macbeth reference there toward the end

Louis excused himself again, murmuring a reason he immediately forgot. He levered open the door to the nearest toilet, dropping to his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. Desperately clawing at the collar of his shirt, he gasped for air as though it might help. His heart raced, pulse beating madly just below every millimeter of his skin. His panic overwhelmed every rational thought in his head—he felt as though he was being tackled, pressed on all sides by heavy bodies he couldn’t shove off.

He thought he might pass out—hoped for it, even, as a relief from this, from this disgusting warmth and his inability to catch his breath. He propped himself up against the wall, clutching his heaving chest. He hoped he would die.

***

 

He skipped school for two days, avoiding his responsibilities and Liam and human interaction. He holed up in his room, literally locking himself away, victim of his own terror and fright.

He stockpiled wine bottles and cigarettes and crisps, pulling all the blankets, pillows, and duvet off his bed to layer everything in a mess in the corner of his room. He needed to feel grounded. Instead he felt unmoored.

He downed diazepam after diazepam, needing to feel the relief of calm, needing to feel as though he was being swept over by a cool stream of water.

When that didn’t work, he traded off smoking cigarettes and spliff, partly to give his fingers something to do. He mellowed slightly, curling up around his own body, tucking his legs up. He propped his laptop nearby, turning on some mindless classical playlist and setting it on repeat. He was glad he had silenced his mobile and let the battery die. He needed disconnection and to forget how to think. He longed to destroy himself but relented just on the cusp of this urge—merely curled himself up tighter and fell asleep for five hours.

Upon waking, he picked up his smoking routine until his throat was raw and maddening. He ate when he remembered to—lackadaisically, here and there, not really fulfilling any internal urge. He thought too much and then not at all, turning on sports programmes and porn and shitty police dramas and buddy comedies. He paid attention to none of them. The colours bled together, and the noises washed his worries away.

***  
He surfaced slowly, wading through his idiotic suffering as though throwing off heavy blankets. He felt the need to kick and thrash, to force his head into the hair in order to gasp for breath. His mind felt no clearer yet he could think of nothing else to do for it.

Yet he stood and stretched and cracked his aching back. He took a shower, paying particular attention to the speed of his resting pulse. He wondered how likely it was that he’d had a three-day-long heart attack, fueled further on by barbiturates and spliff. He pressed the heels of his hand into his eye sockets until his vision turned sparkling pale and painful. He dreaded heading back to school—the scrutinized fishbowl, the ubiquitous microcosm of everything he was ever likely to experience. Nothing was new, not even the angry heart beating jaggedly in his chest.

***  
Eventually Louis supposed he ought to return to school—rather than risk getting expelled yet again, prompting him to adjust to yet another new school. He hummed nervously to himself as he sat in traffic, lips buzzing uncomfortably. He parked unceremoniously and entered the building, feeling a sense of heightening doom.

Liam ran him down quickly enough, shooting an easy smile that crinkled his eyes—they were the color of molasses, he supposed, not that Louis had ever baked with it or even really seen it used anywhere. Liam was making him soft.

“So, I think you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not…avoiding you, exactly,” Louis argued. “I’m avoiding school.”

“Self-sabotage at its finest,” Liam retorted quietly, giving him a pitying look.

“It’s not self-sabotage, it’s just common sense. Avoiding school, it’s in everyone’s best interest.”

“Oh, very funny. My mistake.” He rolled his eyes. “What use is copying my work if you’re not going to be here to turn it in?”

“I’ll talk to Ms. Paulson. I wasn’t feeling well. Had to say home to heal up.”

“Avoiding your boyfriend isn’t exactly feeling ill, you know.”

“I—didn’t mean to. I just get overwhelmed sometimes.”

“And that means you stick your head in the sand and shut out the world?”

“I really need to research that one comatose frog thing. Because that’s me, you know? I just—need time sometimes.”

“Could’ve let me know you weren’t dead.”

“It was—what, two days? You’re not exactly my keeper. I get overwhelmed.”

“So you ignored me? I overwhelmed you too?”

“You—yeah. You did.”

 _“How?_ Tell me so I don’t do it again.”

“Christ, Liam, you said you _loved_ me.”

“What?” he sputtered. “Shit—it’s—that’s what it was? That’s a turn of _phrase.”_

“Yeah, I know. I freaked out whether you did or didn’t mean it. Both—it’s just. No. Both bad. I can’t say it at all and it’s like you just threw it around like it was nothing, like it’s just something to say to pass the time.”

_“What?”_

“It’s just a turn of phrase and you don’t mean it, you—just don’t say it, I can’t hear it.”

“You don’t know I didn’t mean it,” Liam insisted quietly.

“Yes, I do. Because you said so, just said that you didn’t!”

“But I also said it in the first place.”

“So did you mean it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, figure it out. Don’t dick it around, don’t throw around words like that.”

“Did you just tell _me_ not to _dick you around?_ Really? This is ridiculous. I can’t have this conversation right now. I have to get to maths.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t—this is fucking with my head, okay, this isn’t how I _operate._ I can’t—I don’t—I’ll never…” Louis trailed off lamely, scrunching his eyes shut.

“Fall in love?” Liam whispered, face thunderous.

“I can’t.”

“Go to class, Lou. We can talk about this later. Go turn in your falsified chem work or something.”

“Liam—”

“We’ll talk about it _later.”_

***

At the end of the day Louis stopped by Ms. Paulson’s closet of an office, connected via a side entrance to the chemistry lab. He knocked, waiting patiently until she answered the tinted-glass door.

“Yes, Louis? How may I help you?” she asked serenely, a guileless face greeting him.

“Sorry, ma’am, I just wanted to speak with you about my recent absences.”

“Of course.” He surveyed her in a way he rarely did during class time. Her brown hair curled carefully about her shoulders, framing her delicate chin. On her slim nose were tortoise-shell spectacles, which Louis supposed were neither here nor there. Her eyes were bright behind the tempered glass, sparking at him slightly every time she smiled. “Those were unexcused, weren’t they.”

Louis blinked. “Um.” He did not recall ever having had a conversation with Ms. Paulson, let alone spending time with her one-on-one. “I suppose they were.”

“What happened, then? For you to be absent.” She wore a slim pencil skirt and a cream-coloured blouse, looking every bit the part of a porn-set secretary.

“I fell ill.”

“You fell ill? And your parents didn’t see fit to call in to the school to alert anyone?”

“My parents—they’re, well, they’re rather absent. As well.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I was—they weren’t home to call in. To say I’d be gone. Though I’m technically of age and I suppose they wouldn’t have to call in on my behalf, really.”

“Oh, you’re of age, then.”

“I am.”

“Tell me more.”

“Tell you more?”

“About your feeling ill,” she replied, eyebrows shooting up high onto her forehead. “Are you well?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, ma’am.”

“Not contagious, are we?”

“No.”

“And no doctor’s note?” she added, tone low like a purr. She cast her eyes down before bringing them up to meet his gaze.

Louis set his jaw on edge, his pulse going quicker with discomfort. And confusion. “I wasn’t well enough to leave the house. I had a fever.”

“Oh my. And your parents weren’t home?”

“Right,” he said slowly, edge in his tone. “They’re out of town. My stepfather travels a lot.”

“Stepfather?” Ms. Paulson asked, interested even more renewed. 

“Yes.”

“Right. All right. Have you completed any of the work you missed while being gone?” she said next, voice sweet and soft.

“Part of it. My friends weren’t sure how long I’d be gone so they only brought some of my coursework by.”

“I understand. Are you prepared to do the rest?”

“I guess so,” Louis replied with a furrowed brow and a shrug.

“You guess so?”

“Yeah, I can, like, just finish the work I missed, innit.”

“You missed quite a lot, is the thing, though, Louis.” She licked her lips slowly.

“Okay,” he answered slowly, eyes narrowing. He wasn’t sure if he was simply enormously stuck-up and cocky—well, he knew he was cocky—or if she was actually and genuinely hitting on him. He watched her lick her lips again and his stomach turned.

“How about you think over ways to make up everything you missed, okay? And we can discuss it tomorrow.” Ms. Paulson quirked one corner of her mouth upward into a pert smirk.

“Right.” Louis’ thoughts coalesced into a firm understanding that, yes, she was definitely hitting on him.

“Great.” She stood up, smoothing down her skintight skirt.

In a split-second, he created a game plan. He bit his lip, ducking his chin down so he could glance at her through his feather-light eyelashes. He milked it precisely has he had learned to do to lure closet-cases into his bed.

“I really appreciate this. You meeting with me, taking time out of your day to help me, you know? It’s just—really kind of you.” He shot her a small, feigned-shy smile.

She grinned in response. “Of course, Louis. I’m here to help, however you need.”

“You are?” he asked, voice faint but hopeful. Biting his lip a second time, he mused that perhaps he would make a good actor after all. “Really?”

“Yes,” she breathed, leaning forward slightly. “Absolutely.”

Louis bit the inside of one cheek, somehow managing to keep a straight face. He watched her continue to lean forward, noticed the curve of her collarbone through the opening of her blouse, saw the curve of her breasts press against the thin cream material.

He stared down her top and felt his heart beat a little bit faster. “Oh,” he responded belatedly, nodding. “Okay.”

“So you’ll think about it and get back to me?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips. She tapped her fingers momentarily. “Will you do that for me, Louis?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He swallowed hard, blinking at her cleavage in the afternoon light. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” she responded, smiling at him serenely. “Absolutely.”

***

Louis drove home in a daze, a contemplative hazy cloud of smoke and confusion. He retreated immediately to his room, shucking off his clothing as soon as he closed his door. He aimed for the bed quickly, dick already half-hard against the fabric of his pants. He leaned down, dropping onto his mattress within a moment. His dick was in his had instantaneously, outside the fabric of his boxer-briefs.

Taking a moment, he spit into his palm before returning his hand to his hardening cock. He inhaled sharply, back arching into the duvet beneath his back. “Fuck,” he murmured, bucking his hips up slightly, hearing the rhythm of his skin against the sheets.

He continued onward, fist wrapped neatly around his dick, eyes tight shut and watering. Pictures shuddered through his brain—Liam and Zayn and Harry and the cute clerk who handed him his prescription two days ago and his mechanic and Niall and the candy-striper from his hospital stay and one of his doctors and a random movie star and Liam and Ms. Paulson and the girl at the coffee shop and everyone at his dry-cleaners. He ran through them all.

He groaned into the air, spasming abruptly and quickly, come coating his chest. He breathed as his pulse slowed, waiting until his body calmed down.

“Fuck.”

***  
Later that evening he asked Harry to hang out, knowing that if he spent time with anyone else—particularly if he spent time with Liam or Zayn, at least right now—he would likely end up killing someone.

Harry, seeing how tense and frustrated he was, offered to teach him yoga or golf or a myriad of other _calming_ activities that Louis refused.

“What do you want from me then?” Harry asked, tone wheedling and young. Fuck, but he was young—nearly two years younger than Louis himself, even if he carried himself as older than the ages. He was practically a child.

“I just—nothing, I just want to—spend time with you.”

“You want to _spend time_ with me.” Harry raised is brows, shooting Louis an incredulous look. “Since when.”

“I—I always like spending time with you.”

He chuckled humourlessly. “Yeah, okay. Right.”

Louis blinked, gaping open-mouthed. “What do you think of me?”

“I think you don’t know how not to have sex with me, to be honest.”

“Is that—is it that you want me to have sex with you? I’m not—”

“What purpose do I serve, for you?”

“That’s not—you’re a fucking person, like, a person of your own. You don’t need to serve some purpose, you know?”

“Don’t I?”

“I need—someone to not look at me that way. Like I’m just a fucktoy.”

Harry laughed again. “And how do you think people look at me?”

“I don’t—do I do that?”

“Half the time I think you want to devour me.”

“I do that?”

“I don’t think you notice you’re doing it,” Harry added next, voice quiet.

“If I knew I was doing it, I’d stop doing it.”

‘I’m sure you would. You’re not a bad guy, you know. You just don’t know how to relate to me. We were never exactly friends, were we?”

“I thought we were,” Louis murmured, casting his eyes to the ground.

“Look, this is coming off a lot meaner than I meant it to. I just don’t know what you want from me, all right?”

“Nothing. I want for nothing. Let’s just talk about something else.” Louis hunched his shoulders uncomfortably. “Fuck it, let’s—swim or something. I can’t just sit still.”

They went downstairs, Louis stripping quickly, throwing his clothes into a messy pile near his feet. Harry carefully removed his shoes and belt before ducking a hand into his pocket to dig out his mobile. He scrolled through it distractedly as Louis stepped into a pair of board shorts. 

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes before cradling his mobile carefully into his shoe.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just Zayn.”

Louis nodded slowly, tying the drawstring of his board shorts. “You two, then?”

“I mean. Yeah. I dunno, we’re hanging out.” Harry shucked off his thin t-shirt, folding it to set atop his shoes.

“You should probably—”

“I should probably what?” he asked, voice steely.

Louis backtracked. Rather than tell Harry to stay away from, he merely said, “You should probably be careful around him, that’s all. He’s just—always got an agenda, you know?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Harry made eye contact with his, slowly unbuttoning his jeans.

Louis shrugged, knowing the question was loaded. In lieu of answering, he walked to the edge of the pool and dove in. Head underwater, he heard rather than saw Harry jump in as well.

Surfacing, he sputtered slightly. He saw Harry floating around lazily, hair dripping water. “Hey Haz? Why does everyone hate me?”

“Nobody hates you,” Harry responded quickly.

“You do.”

“No I don’t. I love you, Lou.”

“Zayn hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you either. He just thinks you’re an idiot. Which, to be honest, he thinks about everyone.”

“No. He hates me.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “If you’re not going to hear me, we probably shouldn’t have this conversation either.”

“I’m listening. But he does hate me. He does.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Sorry. I keep fucking this up, don’t I? By being frustrating.”

“Being frustrating is one of your best qualities actually. But you could stand to be a little less stubborn, you know? Less convinced of things, like. Like when people tell you you’re wrong, sometimes it’s okay to believe them.”

“Too good by half, you are,” Louis mused quietly.

“So you going to listen to me after all, then?” Harry grinned, bright and easy, cheeks dimpling.

“Doesn’t seem I have a choice at this point.”

“No one really says no to me for very long, sorry to say. I can be weirdly convincing.” Harry play-pouted.

“I think the word you’re looking for is _charming.”_ Louis resolutely looked down, pointedly not staring at Harry’s pillowed lips. Platonic friend, he reminded himself silently. Harry was his friend.

“Whatever you want to call it. Just be glad I’m not doing it right now. I’m telling you. No one says no.”

“Maybe the reason people think of you as a bit of a fucktoy is because you’ll fuck anything that walks.”

“Hey, there’s a difference between being pansexual and being a slut. I’m discerning.” Harry considered this. “I just happen to know a lot of fuckable people. That’s all.”

“Are you discerning, though?”

“That sounds rather like an accusation, Lou.”

“Well you must be rather discerning, given that I’m on that list,” Louis added with a small laugh. “And I’m basically a Greek god.”

“You’re rather high on the list, sure,” Harry agreed, rolling his eyes. “Dunno if I’d quite say you’re a god or anything though. Don’t wanan be struck down by a bolt of lightning.”

“I’ll just give Zeus a stern talking-to. Maybe convince him to turn into a ray of light and fuck the sadness out of you.”

“I’m not the sad one, Lou. That’d be you. I’m doing fine.”

“Are you though?”

“Look, we don’t all need hours and hours of bouncing problems off a therapist before realizing just why we’re fucked up. I’ve dealt with my stuff. It’s not getting in the way of me living my life. I’m doing fine. I’ve got a job, I’m finishing up my classes—even if it’s not at some fanciable college like yours. I like living with Gemma. I like London, and I’m making friends, spending time with my coworkers. Whatever. All right?”

“Do you still cry yourself to sleep every night?”

“I don’t really need you throwing my past in my face every time we try to have a conversation, you know. Yeah, we go way back—but I’m different now, I’ve changed. Can’t stay kids forever.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathed. “I know. I think I—you used to seem so innocent, you know? And I’m sorry I took that away from you. Ruined you, you know?”

Harry quirked a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve never been particularly innocent, not even before you. You met me a little late in the game to have tainted my innocence, sorry to say.” He paused. “Hope that’s not a kink of yours.”

“What?”

“Ruining something innocent. The whole pillage-and-burn thing.”

“I—don’t think it is.”

“Good. I may not be fond of monogamy but I am rooting for you and Liam, you know. And he deserves good things from you. And vice versa.”

“And if I can’t do that for him?”

“Then get out now. Before you ruin each other.”

***  
Louis lay in bed that night staring at the melting shadows on his wall. He wondered just how far he could conceivably go just for a grade—chemistry was just one class, after all, and he didn’t even much _like_ girls. He could continue to copy off of Liam’s work and likely pass the class just fine.

But the thought of tipping Ms. Paulson over the desk in her office, fucking her hard and rough, pulling her long hair and gripping her curved hips—that thought got him ridiculously hard.

He drew the line far ahead of that, committed as he now was to _monogamy_ and all. But his head swam with this newfound sexual crisis. He thought he had laid his sexuality to bed at age nine, the first time he’d kissed one of his footie teammates, before someone had thought to teach him that kissing boys was meant to be shameful. His relationships with girls were laughably disastrous, and their fumblings were awkward at best.

But the thought of Ms. Paulson—wildly inappropriate though her flirting was—heaving beneath him, body pressed against her desk, voice breathy and high…that thought made him ache for some reason.

He got very little sleep that night, repeatedly working himself over with both hands and a lot of lube

***  
He returned to Ms. Paulson’s office at the end of the next schoolday. He was clearly bound, in a hands-off sense, from doing anything with her. _Liam Liam Liam,_ ran the refrain at the back of his head, and he refused to betray that for something so silly as a chemistry grade.

But he could look. And he could flirt. And he knew what he was doing, probably.

He knocked on her door.

She answered promptly, letting him into her office. It was generously lit by the afternoon sunlight, which filtered in through one window. She gestured to a low armchair in front of her desk, so he sat. She rounded the desk and took her place behind it, settling carefully into her chair.

“So you’ve had some time to think, then? About the work you missed with your recent absences. What have you come up with?” She folded her hands on the top of the desk, nails lacquered a pale nude color.

He licked his lips, shifting in his seat. “Well I had a few ideas, I suppose. I could maybe do some extra credit, or receive outside tutoring of some sort. Or I could spend some time after school, just a couple of days, doing your, like, clerical work or something. Like a detention, sort of. In addition to making up the work I missed while I was gone, I mean.”

“Oh, those are good options,” she responded, considering his ideas. She leaned forward, and Louis spared a short glance at her chest. She was sporting a soft-pink cardigan over a while blouse. He supposed she knew just how to dress for her figure, particularly when she was to spend the day teaching adolescents. “I do need to do a yearly inventory of all the laboratory equipment and supplies. You could certainly help me with that. It’ll take much less time with an extra set of hands.”

“Another set of hands, absolutely. I’m good with my hands.” He studied her face, realizing he had never given it proper attention. She had high cheekbones and clear hazel eyes. Her lips plumped out slightly, and Louis was confused by his recent obsession with noticing people’s lips.

She laughed, the noise high and tinkling in the quiet room. That—that was not one of his better lines, but then she seemed predisposed to find him engaging. “Well that is encouraging. What say we start with that tomorrow afternoon? After you’re through with the rest of your classes.”

“Yes, ma’am. Tomorrow it is.” Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Louis drove home and spent his afternoon thinking of tomorrow and his past tomorrows, his dashed and barely-held hopes, his futile attempts at excitement and distraction. He thought of how stupid he was always being, how he hoped for things he had no idea how to pursue. He had a vague notion of future happiness with no clue how to achieve it. He had been told that quality possessions and his pretty face would bring him everything he needed—but he had been lied to.

Upon getting home, he dropped his belongings onto the floor of his room and collapsed onto his bed. He dry-swallowed a pill, then two more in quick succession. He waited for the buzzing in his head to die down the same way he waited for enlightenment.

By the time he woke up the next morning, nothing had changed but the pounding in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: musiclily


End file.
